My husband is a biologist.

So am I, for that matter, but that's not important. I was sharing this story with a friend earlier today and it occurred to me that I hadn't yet blogged it. So, I'm gunna. So, like the title says, my dh (dear husband in messageboard speak) is a biologist. He works with Caribou. I know this because it says so on his name tag, but also because I have a freezer filled with various caribou parts. A head, legs, random assorted teeth and spun serum. Why doesn't he have his own work freezer for such things you ask? Good question. Apparently he now does. Yet the parts persist in my freezer. Puzzling, yes.

 

Anyhow, in addition to the caribou stuff, my freezer also contains a wolf head and a dead flying squirrel. I don't really know why. I try not to ask. Thankfully that little shop of horrors is in the garage freezer and as I seldom have to get into it I tend to forget they're there. Unless I do have to go out for something and am reminded. I don't like being reminded.

 

Being the wife of a biologist means that my general household decor includes (but is not limited to) such things as random ungulate antlers, assorted mammalian vertebrae, beaver wood and lots of moose/caribou related...stuff. For the most part, I also enjoy these things, and am happy to display them. Heck, I don't really even mind storing the caribou serum per se. I do, however, draw the line at fecal matter. Yes, that's right, my dh tried to sneak poop by me. Now, in his defense, it was well packaged and appropriately labeled but it was still, unequivocally, poop. In my freezer. Between the rhubarb and the frozen peas. I'm not even kidding. I'm not even being hyperbolic. Literally. Next to the peas. Bag o' caribou poo. It was almost sitcomish...if there was ever a sitcom related to the weirdness associated with being the wife of a biologist. I opened the freezer, began to rummage, came across bag o' poo, did a double take, picked up the bag, gently set it back down, gently closed freezer door, shook head, opened door again just to make sure, shut it again, took a step back and screamed "DENNIS!". Looking back, it's funny. It was not funny then.

 

So, dh appears and says "Yes?". I ask "Did you seriously put sh*t in my freezer? Seriously?". He had the decency to look sheepish and promised it would be gone in a day. It was. Bonus points for him.

 

This topic came up recently as I was chatting with a lovely couple who are new in town. They asked what my husband did. A friend of mine who was also present urged me to tell them about the fun things in my freezer so I happily obliged. Well, apparently I pronounce serum differently then they do. Sort of like Sir-Rum. The gentleman half of the couple thought I'd said "sperm". So, even though they have never met, Dennis will forever be known as The Caribou Sperm Guy.

 

But he's cute, and I love him, and there are pros to being married to a caribou biologist. Lots of them, in fact. Far more than cons. However, I like to stick with a theme, so the pros will be listed at a later date.

 

So, moral of the story? Store your serum somewhere other than my freezer.